Ch. 6: The Three Elders
Back to Arheled The days were warm and soft as September drew to a close, humid and pleasant. It rained a few times, but even the rain was warm, as Bell twitted Forest. She went swimming every day. Sometimes he joined her, but since the dreadful night in the cemetery he seemed to have become more withdrawn than ever. The trees weren’t changing colors: they simply rusted, their leaves crinkling and shrivelling, sometimes achieving a browny yellow before dropping. The ash were long since bare. The woods in consequence were a somber mix of mottled greens and sad yellows rusted with brown and faded bronze. Forest sometimes caught Hunter Light staring at him and Bell in an odd, pained way, as if they were innocents caught up in some immeasureable secret he was burdened to carry. The week after the cemetery episode—it was the last day of September, pleasant and hot-ish despite the chill morning—Forest saw him give Bell that odd look as he walked out to his car. “You have talked to someone, who is not Arheled.” Forest said. Hunter Light stopped as if his feet had suddenly become too heavy to move. He turned around and stared at Forest. “How can you tell?” “I can See it.” he answered. Hunter Light leaned toward him. His eyes were hard and glittery. “Then perhaps you can tell me what the stars used to be.” Slowly Forest turned and walked up to this room, and as if under a spell his father followed. A square of cardboard was fastened to the wall, hinged with tape at the top. Professor Light stopped in the door. Behind that simple sheet of cardboard, he felt, lay the end of his world. He did not shake off the thought as he once would have, but instead watched, almost holding his breath, as Forest stepped toward it. The boy was still shorter than him, small for his age, and yet somehow his father felt as if he was unutterably old. “This picture was what made my mother call you back.” he said, laying hold of the cover. His small face was composed, agelessly serene. “It is time for you to see the Tree, my father.” He drew back the cover. “Behold the Stars as they were wont to dance.” Hunter Light left the world behind. It was no picture, he knew. It was a window. As his world ended around him, he gazed, intent, a scientist desiring to know. He saw the forms of beauty beyond bearing swirl as they danced upon the lake, and he did not look away. The voice of his son fell like drops of water from behind him, as if his words were somehow part of the picture and part of some vast thing beyond the picture as well. And as his son spoke, the window changed; he saw other things moving in the darkness behind the Stars, amid the hostile trees in the ancient darkness. He saw on the hill far above, a shining Tower like a crystal tree. He saw the tree grow, until there were Two of them, great towers of wood that gave forth light and dripped out light, and light condensed upon them and rayed out from them, a hybrid thing, at once fluid and ethereal, a liquid energy. Then a spear of darkness entered the picture, and horror gripped him, a stab of misery beyond bearing, as at a tale gone horribly wrong: the Trees were dying, all light fading. One last bubble burst from them, sailing into the heavens, wrought into ships of living flame that shed light upon the entire world; and the world was a field, it was not round, and the surface of it flickered with the power of the Road that held it together. Then he saw the Gods upon the mountains, and they were throwing aloft their arms; for the earth underneath them was acrawl with the armies of the engines of Men. “They were worse than any bombs we ever made; for we can only work on the material principle, but they knew other principles that transcended matter, that could with impunity work even upon spirits. And they made war upon the very Gods themselves. And when they saw the King of the Earth set foot upon the deathless shores, they threw down their scepter and cast down their rule over Arda, and called upon the One Himself. And He answered.” With a tremendous effort Hunter Light’s eyes left the picture, left that unbearable beauty that danced and swam before him. Strange movings in his chest made him wonder if his heart had snapped; as, perhaps, it would have had he gazed longer; yet overpowering all this was his ravenous thirst to know, his drinking in of what had happened, whether mysterious or not, that would keep him alive long after lesser men had perished, insulating him, maybe, from even the cold singing of the Stars. He fixed his eyes on Forest. Though the boy’s face was sixteen years old, the look upon it and in the sad deep eyes was far older, graven by uncounted years of sorrow and long gazing. “Who are you?” he said. “I am the Wood of the Road.” the ancient boy said. “I am one of those who truly see.” “What did I just see?” “I told you already that the Sun and Moon were ships. You saw them as I spoke of them. You saw the Moon passing through the Undersea, and the Sun breaching the Doors of Night. You saw the Road upon the surface of the World that was Flat.” Cold reality rose up like despair into the mind of Hunter Light. “The Earth is round.” he said. “I know it is.” Forest nodded. “But it was not always. You see things happening today, and you assume it always worked that way. It didn’t. The world Bent.” Into Hunter’s mind the terrible image he had last seen, those impercievable Hands moving with tremendous slow majesty and immeasurable power, the very earth itself bending like a sponge between them, rock squeezing out the seam as the world bent into a ball. Still through the black voids the thin line of the Road had remained. “But the Stars,” he said, “what happened to the Stars? What took the Moon and the Sun, and made them what they are? If this is true, what transformed the heavens?” Forest looked at him, that strange ancient look still on his face. “''Don’t you know?” he said softly. “Didn’t she tell you?” “You know who she is?” Forest shook his head. “I see what, but I do not see whom.” Hunter Light gazed at the ground for a long while. The painting of the Stars glowed unheeded in the background. Slowly at last he lifted his eyes and looked Forest in the face. “She is Sophia.” he said. “And she is the last living Star.” The day previous had been gloomy, with a steady warm rain. Peter Midwinter listened to it dreamily as he lay prone in his old tent—old, but the tarp over it was new, for how else could he hope to keep out the rain?—pitched in a recess part way up one side of the steep rocky bank above Mad River’s Valley of Voices. He had broke camp from his previous site in July—against his custom; he preferred to stay in one place as long as possible, to keep up the feel of a home—and come here, not long after the disappearance of the Dike and the inundation of the area. Campers had been in the Valley at the time; he found their tents washed up against trees as well as pots and pans and clothes all over Creation; but whether they survived, or were washed downstream to be added to the body count, he had no idea. But he needed their stuff, so he made use of it even as he prayed for their souls. The fire popped and sent out a sharp puff of grey-blue smoke coiling against the lean-to tarp roof, before finding its’ way out at the highest end. Wet or not, if the fire was hot enough it burned anything. He looked at the ancient watch he carried. The type that hung from a chain, with a flip-open cover, it had gears of actual clockwork instead of those nickel-cadmium batteries, and needed to be wound once a day. Heden his father had handed it to him on his deathbed. The old tramp’s strange face grew sombre as he remembered that scene, and the eerie words of Heden never to sell it, nor to part his hand from it, till handing he handed it on, or it was called for. Odd words indeed, from a man dead a hundred years. It’s owner must be long dead too, and no heirs were likely to guess at old Peter the tramp having an antique clock watch. But the time showed at nearly 10:30, so it was probably a good idea to start heading down to the soup kitchen at St. James. He banked the fire carefully and gathered damp twigs to dry next to it, checked for leaks (only one, way at the back; no need to go patching it with roofing tar just yet) and shrugged on his long raincoat. “Ah, there you are, Peter.” said a man standing in front of his tent. Peter paused, frowning. The man wore an old leather coat, sewed many times where it had ripped, and either stained with moss or hung too long in a damp hall, for it was dull with mildew. He had the typical flat newsboy-cap of the 1920s, with a small brim in front and no ear protection, which is mostly seen on old men; but he was not old, though he was not young either, and it was hard to put an age on that somber powerful face, the features of some old and dignified king. On a closer look Peter realized the cap was made, not of cloth, but of leather. “You walk mighty quiet.” Peter said. “I didn’t hear you come.” “No, I don’t suppose you would,” the other man said, with the faintest suggestion of a strange smile. “Rain, you know.” “Yes, very true.” nodded Peter, stroking his beard. “Come stand under cover for a moment. I was about to head into town. How can I be of service?” The strange man fixed Peter with his deep thoughtful eyes. They were blue, but the pupils were edged with amber, that radiated outward into the blue in tiny rays. It made him look almost unhuman. “You wish to be at my service, Peter Midwinter?” “You have the advantage of me, mister.” “Very true,” the peculiar stranger said, “yet one seldom hears such truisms in this hostile world. Now men say ‘Can I help you?’ in a tone that means anything but helpfulness, or ‘What can I do for you?’ with the unstated ending, ‘to get the hell out of my hair.’ And to admit my advantage…!” He broke off, laughing softly. Peter drew in his breath sharply. “My advantage over you is as great as yours is above the birds. And as for your service: you have offered it to me since the day you took that watch into your keeping.” “You know about my watch?!” “I know more about that watch than you would believe possible, Peter.” the stranger said sternly. “It was made in 1695, when the first Midwinter came from out of Middle-earth and set foot upon these shores. Since then three have borne it; you are the fifth to hold that watch, the fourth to pass the lore. But the time for which I made it as at last drawing near. I am the owner of the watch. I have come to lay claim to it, and bestow the doom that it bears.” Peter Midwinter was staring at the other with the same look that St. Peter must have had when he saw the Risen Lord. His bright old eyes were wide with awe, and wonder beyond belief, and immense joy. Slowly he sank down upon one long bony knee. “My lord.” he whispered. Across the face of Arheled a wise and ancient smile spread. “Last of the house of Midwinter, do you offer your service?” “My service has always been yours, Arheled.” “The days draw near. The world darkens around us. Dragons walk as men down our streets, and the Road itself groans with the threat that it feels. The seven thrones are filling. The Lord of Chaos waits under the heart of the world, and I cannot stop him. I call for the watch. Have you it?” Peter drew it out of its’ pocket. Before he could unclasp the chain, Arheled stopped him, and folding his hands around it, pressed it back upon him. “Bear you the watch, Peter eldest of the House of Midwinter, as First of the Three Elders, who have never yet been summoned since the Road began returning. You are their eldest; you must lead them.” “I hear this doom, and I answer it gladly.” Arheled nodded. “It is well.” he said. “You won’t be able to camp here much longer, I suppose.” as a colder gust sucked around them. “That’s when I head to the Y shelter.” shrugged Peter Midwinter. “Not this year.” said Arheled. “This year I will provide other lodgings for you. It is not good for you to be too much of the Shadow Folk, not while they are yet unsworn.” He helped Peter to his feet. “Well, I won’t keep you,” he said. “I know the soup kitchen serves lunch at 11:30. Be ready, Peter. I will see you.” “I will see you also.” said Peter Midwinter. “It’ll be cold this weekend, Wayham.” said Grandmother Lane as she stirred chili on the stove. Wayham Lane, who was inside resting after a long day sawing wood with an antique bowsaw, merely nodded. “Near frost, I would say.” he said. “Let’s hope the rain stops, or it will be raw as well.” “Rufus was rather put out when you wouldn’t let him use the chain saw on those logs.” Grandmother Lane said mildly. “I distrust these new machines.” Wayham replied. “Do you know how many times his saw stopped the last time I let him cut my wood? He only cut two days’ worth of sawing, and spent the rest of the day tinkering queer wrenches and queerer words. No; anything over a foot I will let him cut, but this cordwood from the swamps, it is sticks.” “Here.” said Grandmother Lane, smiling to herself as she lifted the pan off the stove and spooned hot chili onto his plate. “Fill your ancient mouth with that and let me cook in peace.” “Is that what we’re having for vegetables.” She cocked a white brow at him. “I beg your pardon?” “Why, ''pease, of course!” roared Wayham, thumping the table and laughing till he wheezed. Grandmother Lane shook her head, but she was still smiling. “Sounds like something out of Kung Fu Panda.” said what sounded like Rufus Lane, apparently outside the front door, which was open partway. The fireplace had smoked again. “You know, ‘How did you find peace?’ ‘I found it in my pea soup!’ Or that’s what they should have had. Hee hee.” “Come in, Rufus; you’re just in time for supper.” called Grandmother Lane. The screen door squeaked and they heard the clomp of heavy boots on the wood floor. But the man who walked in was not Rufus. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were Rufus Lane.” said Grandmother. “But sit down, anyway, since you’re inside, and tell me to what do I owe this pleasure?” “Afternoon, m’lady, sir.” the stranger said, sitting carefully down in a chair. He was large and ponderous, with a folded solemn face of no definable age: he might have been thirty, or thirty thousand, if you went by the slow ancient light of those strange eyes. “Fact is, I’m a historian of sorts, and they told me at City Hall you knew more about the Lanes than anyone in town.” “Isn’t it usually ‘an historian’?” Grandmother Lane murmered, lifting an eyebrow as she spooned more chili into n another plate. “Well, no, m’lady, the fact is that’s merely a grammatical aberration that took on the force of law back a couple hundred years ago when the grammarians codified—artificially, in my opinion—the English language. English, of course, has a structure and identity, but it is a living speech and not a dead one like Latin—and that too was living once, but when the Emporers rose it became fixed, for to change it would change Rome, and when it became the speech of the Church it became holy. And so English has only been around for, oh, fifteen hundred years (and you need a translation for Old English now!), yet already it has grown so much that the speech as it began is like a foreign tongue. We can, barely, read Middle English, and Elizabethan sounds antique and queer after but five hundred years.” “So grammar has no purpose, then?” Grandmother Lane said shrewdly, putting a plate of chili in front of him and scraping the remainder into her own plate. She always made enough for three these days; if it wasn’t used at meals it would be eaten in between by Wayham. Today he simply wouldn’t have any seconds. “There’s peas on the stove, if you want any.” “Why, thank you very much, I’m sure. No, grammar has a purpose, to hold a speech together and keep it from, say, breaking apart in an ice-storm. But saying that it must be an historian and not a '' historian—why, that’s just ridiculous!” “It does not even make sense.” added Wayham. “A language grows, like a tree,” the stranger said, pausing to eat chili. He ate with a curious, antique elegance, speaking only after he swallowed. “Excellent, this. I haven’t had as good in a long time. But the grammar people, they are like pruners who would lop off any new shoots at all, even those that carry on the shape of the old branches. Take ‘ain’t’, for example. Is it not more expressive, more conveyant of meaning, than the ‘correct’, ‘approved’ shortcut of ‘aren’t’? The true expression, ‘am I not’ or ‘is it not’, are too formal for most people today, aren’t I right?” Grandmother Lane chuckled. “You are indeed right. Now, you say you wanted to hear about the Lanes?” “One thing I wonder,” said Wayham almost at the same time, “is why you called Crimella here, m’lady. I haven’t heard anyone called that in a—very long time.” “But she is.” answered the stranger. “She is the lady of the house of Lane. There’s always been a Lane in Colebrook; but do you know why?” “I’m not sure what you mean.” said Grandmother Lane. “Your house goes back beyond Wayham.” said the stranger. “Lanes have walked in many lands, for many ages, since the Road first began to return and the Wayfinder began to call them. Oh yes, your line is not the only one to know of him. That’s why I’m here, in fact. Because both of you know of him. You, m’lady, have sought for him your whole life—while you, Wayham, have spoken with him.” Both Lanes became immobile, stiff as stone, eyes burning into the solemn stranger. He scraped the last of the chili off his plate as if he hadn’t noticed, then looked up and met their eyes. There was a hint of laughter in his face. Slowly Wayham Lane rose to his feet. His face was suddenly solid as if chopped out of some hard and ancient wood, but his eyes burned strong and commanding. “No one knows my name.” he said in a dangerous voice. “Whom you are you have not said. You will say it now, and you will say from whom your knowledge comes, or I swear by the Road you will exit from this house. I am Wayham. I command you.” The face of the stranger was changing under his gaze, the features becoming powerful in majesty, yet still with a wise earthiness like a king of rock; and an amber ring was growing in the blueness of his eyes. Very old those eyes were, slow and potent and alive with kindness and strange laughter. “My knowledge is from myself.” he answered. “My names are all assumed, and though all of them are true expressions none of them are truly mine. I am the one who planted you here. I am the one who kept you alive down the ages. I am Wayfinder.” Slowly the stern look faded from the eyes of Wayham Lane, replaced by awe. He sat carefully down in his chair, his eyes bright and wary. Grandmother Lane looked as if she had been turned to stone. “Let there always be a Lane upon this spot, to watch over it even when they do not know they are so doing; for if no Lane is here to greet the Road it will be ill indeed for Arda.” said the Wayfinder softly. Tears began to well up in the frozen eyes of the old woman, though her dried-up face remained as stiff as wood. “Are you…are you truly him?” she said almost timidly, and the voice was that of a very young girl. “I am him whom your house has known as Wayfinder.” he said gently. “I have come to call you forth. You have desired long to see me, but I did not show my face, for that which I feared had not yet come. Now it has. Now is the time for which I have seeded so long in advance. On this feast of Michaelmas do I call the Three Elders, to join their ancient might to the Children of the Road, that Nine may stand against the Lord of the Darkness. Do you answer, daughter of the house of Lane?” “I have answered since my father told me stories of the Wayfinder, when I was but a girl.” Grandmother Lane answered. “Then I call you forth, Crimella Lane, Second of the Three Elders, their voice of wisdom, even as Peter Midwinter is eldest and leader, even as Hunter Light is youngest and the voice of knowledge. Be you under the Road, and may It rise to meet you. You shall call upon the weathers and the lords of the winds, and Peter shall call to the Powers of the Seasons, and Hunter shall call to the light in all its’ natures, as it was and as it is. “Let the Three Elders rise!” And even as the voice of Arheled faded in the rafters, the two old Lanes found themselves gazing at an empty chair. October 1st dawned cold and rainy. The warmth that had ended September was only a pleasant memory. Carlee found herself getting up in the middle of the night to add another blanket; the landlord was a cheapo and the apartment had no thermostat. But the rain ended by midmorning and the clouds opened, great islands of windy blue yawning amid them. Just in time for the Fall Foliage Festival, she thought. It was just a few streets away, on Main, so Carlee took the long black umbrella Ronnie had given her and walked across Winsted. It was a plain, old-lady sort of umbrella, but Ronnie had given it, and that more than anything else made it special. She smiled as she thought of Ronnie. Maybe it would be a good idea to have him over again, now that they knew each other a little better. Acting on impulse she called and left a message suggesting a visit that evening, “but it’s okay if you can’t make it, I know it’s short notice.” She closed her phone with a sigh. She really wished one of these days he would actually answer it. Not much fall foliage was around to be celebrating. Sad yellows and warm rusty bronzes mottled with green was the best Winsted seemed to be putting out this year. She crossed Church Hill with its’ quiet respectable neighborhoods and passed St. Anthony’s School, then down the sloping drive of St. Joseph’s and so to Main St. The wind blew fresh and cool. One side of main, where the median with its’ trees divided it in front of the post office, was closed and cluttered with vendors and food tents. There was a sizeable crowd. She spotted Brianna walking with a gaggle of teens, Camille beside her, and they waved. The kid was going brunette this year; she never seemed to make up her mind on hair color. “Hey, Carlee!” somebody hailed her. She looked up and found herself face-to-face with Dave. “Get away from me!” she snapped, brushing by him and walking faster. “Hey, hey, hey, babe, I just wanna talk, okay?” he said hastily, catching up. “After what you said to me?! You got your freakin’ nerve!” “Yeah, I know, I was drunk right when you called and I acted like a real creep, I know. I just wanted to ask if, like, there’s any way I could make up for it. I’m really sorry, what I said, I didn’t mean it, you know.” The umbrella handle felt warm in Carlee’s hands. “Dave,” she said in a gentler voice, coming to a stop, “I’m glad you apologized. But I’m afraid it’s all over between us. I wanted a husband, Dave. Not a bedmate. We can still be friends, since you’ve apologized, but we’re through.” “I see.” said Dave. “Since we’re friends, you wanna, I dunno, grab a pizza or something?” “No.” said Carlee firmly. “We can sit down and talk on one of the benches if you have anything to say, but I won’t let you walk with me, and I won’t go anywhere with you.” A change came over his good-looking face. It grew hard and sinister, the eyes beginning to glow. Carlee took a step backward, a tide of panic washing through her limbs. “I take back my apology.” he said in a dangerous voice. “You are going somewhere with me, all right, you little bitch. And when I’m through with you, you will mount the second throne.” “Get away from me, get away, or I’ll scream.” gasped Carlee. She held up the umbrella, stiffly, as if she could somehow stop him with it, backing away. People were beginning to notice. “I have a new father now.” said Dave softly. “Go ahead and scream. I give you permission.” He moved faster than she did. Even as she swung the umbrella, he closed his hand upon her arm. “But where you scream, no one will hear.” Blue lightning came out of the umbrella. Dave gasped and jumped backward. Smoke rose from a scorched spot on his shirt. “Ronnie.” he snarled. “You have been dating the Hill of the Road. You…little…''bastard!!!” Just like that he wasn’t human anymore. Just like that he was a dragon, twenty feet long, blue and golden red, and from his jaws burst a blue mist. The umbrella flew open and blocked it; and instead of heat, Carlee found herself imprisoned in an igloo of solid ice. In a blind panic she flailed with the umbrella. Blue light hammered into the ten-foot-thick ice. Three blows with the umbrella sent it fountaining up in shards of steam, but as the steam blew away she saw in dawning horror that they were no longer on Main Street, but in an underground cave. “Let your magic umbrella protect you from the roof!” roared the dragon, and with his tail he smote the wall. A landslide of giant stones cascaded down upon her. Frantically Carlee held it open, above her, crouching under it like a shield. Rocks thundered off a web of blue light. A tail, prehensile as a tentacle, snaked up through the earth under her feet and plucked the umbrella from her grasp. The rocks ceased to fall. The umbrella withered and burnt away like ash. Ice lifted stones away. The dragon’s eyes looked into hers, and drew hers in, bottomless as wells, and Carlee fell down into darkness and swooned upon the floor. Dave stepped forward in his human form, save that his eyes were still the eyes of a dragon. A dreadful smile grew upon his face as he reached down to caress the fallen girl. “Now you will do whatever I want you to,” he said, “before I take you to my father.” The feast of St. Francis was that Tuesday, Oct. 4th, cold and gloomy with intermittent rain spilling from the skies. Daily Mass at St. Joseph’s was said in the afternoon on Tuesdays, at 5, and today there was a soup-and-bread dinner in the new Parish Center. Fine way to celebrate a saint, by eating plain food, thought Ronnie; but food not cooked by him was always welcome. The Beckmans were there—all six or seven of them, they were homeschoolers—and there were the Nine Midwinters. Well, seven of them. He knew the eldest was in college, and there was Lara, but Lilac was nowhere in sight. Lara looked so drawn she seemed almost haggard, and Mrs. Midwinter did not smile when she said hello to Ronnie. “Is something wrong?” he asked Lara. “Where’s Lye?” Lara gave him a haunted stare. “We don’t know.” she said bluntly. Ronnie stopped dead in his tracks and stared full at her. Lara tried to glare, but when she met the red flicker in his eyes she lowered hers. “She vanished.” Lara said. Slowly the red spark faded into concern, and alarm. “When?” Ronnie asked. “It was…we saw her last after supper yesterday. Her bed wasn’t touched. Nothing was taken. But she’s gone.” “Taken.” said Ronnie. “What, how do you know, she could have gone for a walk and had an accident—“ “Taken by our enemies.” said Ronnie firmly. “I know it. I felt it. I suppose you’ve already called in the police?” “Well, my dad is a cop, so the police have been in it from the start.” Ronnie nodded. “After supper I’ll stop in at Forest’s on the way home. You give Travel and Brooke a call. We are the Children of the Road—this is Road business.” He stayed only long enough to eat his fill. A premonition was growing in him. Carlee hadn’t answered his repeated calls, and when he went to her apartment it was dark and lifeless that evening, and there had been nothing for it but to go home. But now he was alarmed. Had the umbrella been enough? He biked up the steep straight streets above Church Hill, over a summit where a house’s porch roof rested on a massive intruding rock, and then cut off the street Carlee lived on. Dark was drawing down over Winsted, and the sky far above was a deep pure blue. The clouds were nearly gone, but more threatened in the south. Sad pale stars shone in hard pricks of white in the eastern darkness. A side street crossed Carlee’s street at a cross, then after a little made a left elbow turn up the hill. Funny old houses stood along it, and below the elbow turn was a gateway into woods, near which was a charming old cinder-block cabin, small and square with curtains in the dark windows. Ronnie wondered if anyone lived there. It was mossy from the overhanging trees. Hiding his bike he went down into the woods. He trod softly, afraid neighbors might hear him: backyards were close behind the brush-wall on the right. Ahead was a sudden steep rise, and out of that rise ancient ruins tottered, shells of houses nigh-collapsed, and foundations of structures that already had, and odd quaint little staircases of masonry going up the hill. Ronnie mounted beside the tall ruin. Its’ wood siding was dark green, and the house sagged in the middle, nearly ready to collapse: the roof had already buckled in the Fell Winter. As he emerged on the level, he had the queerest feeling that he was in the cast-off shells of some horrible living structure, as if it kept shedding buildings behind it like successive skins, the farther back you went the worse and the more decrepit they grew. A courtyard surrounded him, open to the slope behind, but on left and ahead was a tumbledown white-painted outwork of garages and outbuilding, the paint long since peeled, graffiti sprayed palely on it here and there. On the right the gaping walls of the sagging ruin yawned. Gutters trailed to the ground. He stepped into the doorless opening straight in front. At first it was damp and soggy with decay, but stuff was piled against walls and aisles the farther in he went, all sorts of random tools and attic things, as if it was growing increasingly less abandoned. Another layer of shell. Then he came to garage doors, open fortunately, and beyond were vehicles, and Carlee’s tall house. There was a light in her rooms. A relieved but still wary feeling in his heart, Ronnie Wendy slipped across to her building and walked softly up the steep old stairs. He rapped on the door. There was a startled scrabbling from inside. Then a girl’s voice, drained and careless, not Carlee’s, asking who was there. “I’m looking for Carlee.” he called. The door creaked open. Cassie stood there, reeking of beer and smoke, her eyes looking listless and dull. She seemed half-assembled, as if her clothes had been thrown on anyway without regard for effect. “You’d be Ronnie, huh?” she said. “Well, I ain’t seen her in days. Maybe she’s cheating on ya.” The faint heavy malice in the words was a surprise. Ronnie gave her a narrow look. “I don’t believe you.” he said. “I think you’re just trying to step between us. Is she in there? If so, I want her to tell me to get lost with her own voice, and not a go-between’s.” Cassie gave him a blank look: the sarcasm was totally wasted on her. It wasn’t tobacco smoke, Ronnie realized, that reek. It smelled like burnt oak leaves. Pot. His eyes flickered red for a second. “I’m glad you’re telling the truth.” he said. Without wasting further breath on formalities he turned around and headed down the stairs. Out in front of the church, Ralph was still talking with Mary Rogers. The evening was growing warmer than it had been all day—the rain had stopped, and the clouds were opening above a gorgeous sunset—but Mary still shivered a little. “Hey, you want to get some pizza?” she said. “I have to get home pretty soon, but I can hang for a bit.” “Yeah, you said you were moving to Virginia next week?” “Yep. Permanently. Forever. No more Yong Adult Group.” She had been the group leader all winter. “Aw, come on, I liked having you in charge. Nothing got done.” chuckled Ralph. They headed down the steep drive to get their cars—they’d parked along Main St. “Yeah, but at least nobody got eaten by dragons when I was in charge.” “Hey, that wasn’t even a Youth Group meeting, and none of us got eaten anyway.” said Ralph. A police car pulled up to the curb, the dreadful red and blue flashers rending the night, just as Ralph was starting his engine. Two officers got out. Ralph and Mary looked at each other. “Ralph, are you sure you’re parked legally?” she said dryly as he fumbled to open the glove compartment. The policemen walked up to the car, one on each side, and one rapped on Ralph’s window. He rolled it down. “Hey, good evening, officer.” he said. “Sir, can you turn off your engine for a moment and step out of the car?” “Why, what’s wrong?” said Ralph, turning it off. “Are you the owner of this vehicle?” “Yes, of course I am, it’s registered and everything…” “Well, we’d just like to ask you some quick questions, sir, so if you could both step out of the vehicle and keep your hands where we can see them—?” “Don’t you usually just ask for the license, insurance and registration?” said Ralph, getting out of the car. “We’ll get to that. Could you tell me your names?” The policeman on the other side pushed past Mary before she could close the door, nearly knocking her off balance, and pulled the papers from the glove compartment. “Hey, you can’t do that.” she said. Eyes like those of a frozen fish looked into hers. “Oh, you’d be surprised, young lady.” he said. He walked over to the cruiser, riffling through the papers. The other one proceeded to take down names, dates of birth, addresses and phone numbers, asking each question in the bored impersonal and overserious voice police use when they are actually covering for something else. “Have you ever been convicted of a crime?” “No, but look, officer, what’s going on here? Are we parked illegally or something?” “We had a complaint that this was a stolen vehicle, sir. Now if you’ll just stand right there and wait, I’ll go and see how we’re doing with checking your papers.” He took Ralph’s license (Mary hadn’t brought hers as she wasn’t driving) over to the squad car and leaned on the door, talking to the cop inside. The ghastly red and blue lights played luridly over everything, giving it a weird and unnatural aspect. The cops kept them waiting for a good ten minutes. Then the door opened and the other cop got out. Both of them walked over, with that slow almost arrogant poise of the policeman who knows he is in charge, and wants everyone to know it. “You’re going to have to come with us, I’m afraid.” the second one said. “Because right now, the way it stands, things do Not Look Good.” He pursed his lips in an oversolemn frown and shook his pompously as he spoke. “Are we under arrest?” said Ralph as he and Mary were ushered in front of the cops towards the cruiser. “No, we’re just taking you in for questioning right now, but if we can’t get some straight answers, we may decide to keep you overnight or even give you your one phone call.” Ralph was pushed roughly to a seat when he didn’t slide in fast enough. He was seriously alarmed by now. Dusk was closing down, and the weird blue sky of a dying day glowed sadly in the west above the black shapes of the hills. The cruiser didn’t go very far, only a block or two westward, turning right into a driveway between two brick buildings. The Post Office was on the right. On the left was the high square Town Hall building, with old metal front doors painted red. The cruiser stopped. They weren’t taken in the front doors, but into an arched side entrance, glass-doored and lit from inside, giving onto a lower floor. It made Ralph think for some reason of the door into the underworld. They were escorted down halls lined with brick and old plaster, windows almost at the ceiling: it felt half underground. The doors were all metal. The police took them into a small room with a table and some metal chairs with cold red upholstery, lit by a single light bulb. They were given two chairs at one end of the square table. The police sat on the other end. “Now all you have to do is just answer us the right way, and this can all be cleared up.” said the first policeman. They were able to see him clearly for the first time: a young man about 25, with a sort of corn-like hardness in his face, with his large ears and short-cropped hair adding to the look. “And be nothing more than a bad dream.” the second added. He was young too but with dark hair and a long lantern face. But in one thing both were alike: they had large, strange eyes of a peculiar brilliance, difficult to look away from. “Just a bad dream.” “All this will be only a bad dream.” “A bad dream.” “A dream of fear and fright.” Ralph and Mary merely looked bewildered. “Is that supposed to mean anything?” Mary said tartly. The low soft drone of the cop voices stopped. The two policemen sat in their chairs, upright, stiff as statues. “Yeah, cause I mean, seriously, if you guys are sniffin’ glue or something, my lawyer is going to do a lot of talking.” said Ralph. Slowly the two policemen turned their heads and gave each other a long look. Slowly their heads turned back to face them. “This isn’t going to be so easy, Connor.” said the first. “We were warned they might be strong.” the dark long-faced one answered. “But there are many things they are vulnerable to, however protected they are from our direct might.” '' “Ralph…” said Mary in a strangled voice, leaping to her feet, '' “Ralph, run!” “Why, what’s the…” Ralph sagged and fell out of his chair as the policeman’s fist hit the side of his head. The second tackled Mary before she reached the door. “These Catholics can resist any of our powers, but ordinary violence can fell them with a blow.” Mary heard the first cop say dimly, as unconsciousness tugged at her. “Strange people, they are. Our Father will be pleased.” Back to Arheled